


Unspoken

by Raicheru



Series: Here We Go a Witchering [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But of course they don't talk about it, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I'd need friends for that, Kidnapping, M/M, Never Beta'd, Requited Love, a bit of angst, but not too much, mutual understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicheru/pseuds/Raicheru
Summary: They never talk about how they feel.  It's always quiet moments spoken without words.Geralt comes back from a hunt to find Jaskier missing and must rescue his wayward Bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Here We Go a Witchering [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654147
Comments: 20
Kudos: 497





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I've written anything. I've puttered around, but have a very difficult time staying with it. (Stupid full time job and adult responsibilities.) I'm absolutely thrilled that the Witcher has taken off and become so popular. There's new art and fiction every day. I love it!
> 
> I've played all of Witcher 3 and seen the show (three times and counting.) I'm currently reading the books. I tend to pick out the things I like and ignore the rest so I'll be pulling inspiration from everything.

Geralt watched the malicious light fade from the drowner's eyes where the head lay on a small tuft of grass sticking up out of the mire. The still twitching body created small ripples in the water where it lay three feet away before finally going still. For once, he'd managed to finish off a nest without bathing in the fetid waters of the marshlands where he last contract had taken him. He didn't particularly care himself, but his companion would be relieved. The less complaints from the bard, the better for his own piece of mind.

Cleaning the worst of the muck off his sword with a clean cloth from his belt pouch, he started heading towards dry ground. Drowner contracts never paid well but they were always easy to come by. He wasn't quit quite broke yet, but money hadn't been particularly plentiful lately. With the reward for this quick hunt, there would at least be enough for meals and a room for the night. With any luck, Jaskier would bring in enough coin at the the tavern for a bath as well. Not that Geralt would ask him of course. Nor would Jaskier offer. 

He sighed as he slid the silver sword carefully into the sheath on his back and scanned the shallow waters around him. He tried to convince himself that the twitch of his nose was due to the stench of the swamp and not an involuntary tic tied to his sudden discomfort. He refused to call it anxiety. He was mildly disturbed by the level of blind comfort he'd reached with the bard. He shouldn't be relying on another so easily. They'd traveled together off an on for a handful of years now and he'd found himself counting on things that he should be taking care of himself. Or not caring about at all. 

When they set up camp most evenings, it was a given that Geralt would brush down Roach and get her settled before going out to hunt something for dinner if their supplies were wanting. Jaskier would gather firewood and clear the area, fastidiously tossing stray rocks and sticks aside so they wouldn't poke into their bedrolls before laying them out. All of this was done without words. There would still be talking of course. Jaskier would prattle on about the current day, about the day yet to come, or ask questions about previous hunts, relentlessly nagging for details to add to his latest ballad or poem. Sometimes, he'd hum under his breath. Occasionally he'd sing. But rarely did they speak of what they were doing or what needed to be done because it had become comfortable habit. 

Comfortable habits were a weakness. He should be more wary of becoming so reliant on his companion. The Path was meant to be traveled alone. Tying himself to a mortal human was dangerous and would only end in pain. He wondered which would come first; his skills slowing until he was disemboweled by a monster to meet his final end, or watching Jaskier age and die while he himself stayed the same. Of course, there was a third option where the bard got himself eaten by a monster while trailing after him or run through by a lover's spouse. 

Geralt shook his head and brushed the uncomfortable thoughts aside. He sidestepped a scraggly bush with prickly, grasping branches and sighed. He was fooling himself of course. Nothing would happen to Jaskier if he could help it even if the wanton singer often brought trouble down on himself. Despite Geralt's numerous attempts to push the man away when they'd first met, it was . . . comforting to have him travel at his side. His presence filled a hole he hadn't even known was there. 

As his boots cleared the last of the muck and he kicked the worst off, he heard the creak and clink of familiar tack. Geralt stopped in his tracks, senses suddenly focused on his surroundings. Roach broke through a stand of reeds in front of him and moved forward to butt her head against his chest. His hands automatically came up to grasp the bridle and brush his a gloved hand softly down her nose. Quickly scanning her for signs of damage, he listened carefully. All he heard was the occasional caw of a raven through the hush of windswept grasses. He'd left Roach at camp with Jaskier before he headed out, but there was no sign of the bard. 

Mounting quickly, he rode toward camp at a controlled pace, traveling almost silently. Not for the first time, he wished Roach could answer questions. There were few reasons she'd wander off alone. That she'd come to find him was worrying. Geralt had managed to convince Jaskier to stay at their dry, sheltered camp this time instead of following him on the hunt. Not that it had taken much. Swamps and mires were much less enticing than hunting in cool, dry forests and forgotten caves. The last time the bard had followed him into a marsh, he'd sunk to his chest in a muddy sinkhole. He stood there holding his lute above his head, desperately shrieking for Geralt to save the instrument. It had taken some time to pull him out and the other man spent the rest of the evening shivering and cursing about his ruined clothes. A foot or two deeper, and he'd have lost more than just pieces of his wardrobe.

Just outside camp, Geralt dismounted and looped the reigns over a low hanging branch. He moved forward silently, engaging his senses and looking for anything out of place. It was dim and he wouldn't have been able to see anything if he'd been human. The embers had burned down to nothing in the hours he'd been gone and the pile of gathered wood nearby looked untouched. He could see Jaskier's lute case laying propped against a stump where it had been set down hours earlier. A soft nudge confirmed that the instrument was still safely tucked inside. At first glance, he might have thought that Jaskier had stepped away to relieve himself. But his notebook lay open next to his bedroll, the quill bent and broken. A trail of ink crawled across the page from the last clearly written letter, like he'd falling asleep while writing and slumped over where he sat. There were no overt signs of struggle. The dirt was dry and tightly packed which didn't offer much evidence of footsteps. 

Closing his eyes, Geralt flared his nostrils. He caught Jaskier's scent, the rosemary and mint of his favored soap, and an underlying hint of sweat. And something unknown to him. It was a sharp, herbal stink that nearly buried the other scents around Jaskier's bedroll. Geralt felt a tightening in his gut as he picked through the rest of the camp. Whatever it was, it smelled toxic and he blew out a sharp breathing trying to clear his nasal passages. Jaskier had enough herbalism knowledge to know what was useful and what was harmful, so it was doubtful it was something he'd mixed himself.

At the northern edge of the clearing, Geralt saw broken branches and the outlines of footprints where the earth was damp. There were six pairs altogether, and none of them had the shape of Jaskier's fashionable, yet perpetually unsuitable, boots. If they'd taken him, he'd been carried. Geralt thought back through their recent encounters, struggling to think if any of them might have led to some type of retaliation. But nothing came to mind. Their travels had been relatively peaceful lately. 

Geralt quickly picked up the lute and hung it from Roaches saddlebags before packing the notebook in with the bedrolls. He moved out on foot, leading the horse by the reigns. He followed the minor signs of his quarry's passage, carefully picking through the sparse growth and small, crooked trees. Whoever these people were, they seemed familiar with the area. He had to backtrack a couple times when he overshot the barely perceptible trail. The waning moon offered little light and he didn't have any Cat potions prepared. There was no way he could ride and search. He leaned down towards the ground, occasionally squatting down to get a closer look at a broken twig or bent blade of marsh grass. He found the occasional boot print in the softer patches of earth. They were careful, but they weren't really covering their tracks. 

After nearly an hour of traveling, the glow of lights appeared in the distance and he dismounted. He looped the reigns over the pommel of his saddle to let Roach run free of danger if necessary. This part of the marshy forest was incredibly old and the stink of deep rot permeated everything. Geralt crept forward to kneel at the edge of a large clearing. Braziers dotted the space, illuminating the area with an eerie flickering glow. They were not natural fires, and they burned with a sickly reddish haze. His medallion began to shiver as a low mist started crawling in from the darkness at the edge of the light. At the center of the space was a short, gnarled old tree that was twisted with age. The trunk had split sometime in the past and the mangled remains bowed down and out in five directions before growing upward again, like a skeletal wooden hand. The flattened space in the middle was setup like an altar with numerous candles nestled in the craggy bark. Old, dark stains streaked it's surface. Sprawled in the center of the split tree was Jaskier. 

He was shirtless and barefoot, his arms and legs stretched across the base of the tree. His wrists and ankles were secured with leather straps that were nailed into the thick bark. A strip of crimson fabric covered his eyes. Another was knotted and pulled tightly between his teeth. A rough stone ring lay against the hollow of his throat, tied in place with a leather cord. Strange angular symbols were painted across his bare skin in some kind of dark pigment that smelled of blood. Geralt wasn't sure if it was better or worse that it wasn't Jaskier's. The bard's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths and Geralt was relieved to hear the frightened flutter of his heartbeat. Before he could move to release him, a low hum sounded throughout the clearing. Jaskier's heart rate sped up and he pulled against the bindings as he let out a soft moan. The symbols started to crawling slowly across his skin, making him twitch where he lay. 

The hum grew louder as six cloaked figures entered the clearing. Geralt's medallion thrummed with more force as magic flooded the clearing. They carried censers that wafted acrid herbal smoke that burned Geralt's sensitive nose. It was the same smell from camp. 

“So the Witcher comes.” The six figures spoke in unison, their voices overlapping in a discordant tangle of sound as they walked in slow circles through the clearing. “We wondered when you'd arrive.” The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his teeth ache. 

Geralt hissed out a breath and fought the sudden mental intrusion that tried to push past his defenses. The smoke from the censers. Jennifer had used scent as a distraction in much the same way once. He tried to focus on something that would keep the intruders out. He stood slowly as if pushing against a heavy hold that tried to keep him kneeling. He managed to reach his feet, his knees creaking painfully with the effort. Breathing deeply in a calm rhythm, he started moving slowly, one inch at a time, his feet sliding across the dead leaves as he struggled against the force pushing against him. His fingers itched for his sword.

“You're strong,” the mingled voices continued. 

“What do you want?” Geralt ground out between gritted teeth as he continued to inch forward. 

“A voice. We need another voice.” The humming grew again as they started circling the tree altar, swinging the censers in wider arcs. “We heard him singing to us. We need his song.”

Jaskier wailed behind the gag, the sound threading through the others' voices. The painted symbols on his chest pulsed in time with the swinging of the censers and the stone ring against the his throat started to give off a sickly, yellow glow. Geralt didn't have much time to decide if he should head straight for Jaskier or cut down the ones hurting him. Either way, he needed to stop the ritual before it was completed. As the hum reached it's bone shuddering peak, Jaskier let out a short, strangled cry, his back arching. The sound pushed Geralt out of whatever movement stifling trance he'd been falling under. He drew his silver sword and stepped into the crimson glow.

“Noooo,” the voices moaned in unison as the figures moved toward Geralt, swinging the censers like weapons. The scented smoke made it hard to breathe and the mist along the ground was becoming so thick, it lapped at the edge of the altar like waves against a shore. 

Geralt kicked the nearest figure and brought his sword up to block the blow of a swinging censer. The chain wrapped around the blade and he yanked it out of their grip, slinging it away before turning quickly and running them through with the blade. The remaining members shrieked together in an ear piercing mix of voices. Jaskier was keening, his muffled voice cutting under the sound. When the fallen figure hit the ground, the hood fell back revealing a nondescript male face. Geralt swallowed hard as he saw the deep, circular indentation that dug deeply into the man's throat. He could make out the shape of a ring embedded where his vocal cords should be. 

Spinning around, Geralt started cutting down the rest in earnest, ducking wildly whirling censers with ease. As each one fell, the voices cut out one at a time until only Jaskier's panicked cries remained. They cut off suddenly in strangled, choking coughs as the ring started pressing against his throat hard enough to cut off his airway. Geralt ran to the altar and pulled out a knife to cut the leather tie as carefully as he could. He winced winced as the blade nicked soft skin and a trickle of blood dribbled down along Jaskier's neck. He flung the ring away and watched in horrified disgust as it burrowed into the ground and disappeared. He would have preferred to smash it to bits. 

As soon as the ring sank out of sight, the braziers snuffed out suddenly, leaving only the flickering light of the altar candles. His amulet's vibrations stilled to a barely noticeable tremble. The lingering effects of the ritual's magic remained but would most likely fade with time. Geralt turned his attention to Jaskier and pulled the blindfold and gag free before cutting the leather ties that bound him to the tree. He needed to get him away from here to break any connections that had started to form. He'd never seen anything like this in his travels, but magic had certain patterns no matter what it was used for.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured quietly as he checked the bard's pulse. Jaskier's head lolled back as he coughed weakly before going still. An ugly, ring-shaped bruise was starting to form on his throat and there were lines where the leather had started to cut into his neck. But his heart slowed to a steady beat and his ragged breathing slowly calmed. Geralt whistled for Roach who came trotting up quickly like she'd been waiting for his call. There was no sign of Jaskier's wayward clothing or boots, so Geralt wrapped him carefully in the spare blanket before mounting. Settling the unconscious bard in his lap and holding him securely against his chest, he headed for the nearest town as dawn started breaking through the trees. A quick sign woven with his fingers set the figures and the tree alight with Igni. He didn't look back. 

*******

The innkeeper eyed him and his bundle with widened eyes and his mouth slightly opened like he'd forgotten how to speak. Geralt was about to lose his patience, but before he could say anything, Jaskier shifted in his arms. He groaned and pushed at the blanket, working one arm free before slumping against his chest again. The painted markings were even uglier in the morning light that streamed in through the window. There was a crash of crockery from behind the bar as a mug slipped from the barmaid's fingers. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the patterns decorating Jaskier's skin. 

“Leave!” she cried. “You'll bring the Singers' wrath down upon us!”

The innkeeper shook himself out of his stupor and whipped around to shush her. 

“Nattie!” he hissed. “I'll have none of your mother's superstitious nonsense here. Show some respect!” He eyed her balefully, but she just flicked her fingers in a warding sign against evil and fled to the kitchen. The man sighed and bowed his head slightly towards Geralt. “My apologies, Master Witcher. My girls are wary and prone to. . .”

“It's fine,” Geralt huffed as he adjusted the bundle in his arms. “Do you have any rooms?”

“Of course, of course,” the innkeeper said grabbing a key from one of the hooks under the counter. “Please follow me.” He lead the way toward the back of the tavern and the stairs. “They've always told stories of robed men that sing in the darkness and steal people away to join their dark chorus. But they're just stories meant to scare children.”

“Most stories are rooted in some kind of truth,” Geralt said evenly. “You can assure your wife and daughter that these singers will bother you no more.” He halted on the stairs as the other man stopped abruptly and turned. 

“They. . .they were real?” He glanced nervously at Jaskier's bared arm. “And you're sure they're gone now?”

“It's a bit difficult to be wrathful when you're dead,” Geralt grumbled, trying to keep his patience. “I would have brought proof if I'd known I needed it, but I burned it all to ash, them and their ugly tree. Now,” he said impatiently. “The room?”

“Uh,” the innkeeper stammered, shaking himself briefly. “Yes, yes of course. This way, Master Witcher. I'll have Nattie draw a bath.”

“No bath,” Geralt interrupted. “At least not right now. Just a bucket of hot water, and clean bandages if you have any.” 

“Of course, Sir. Of course.” He showed them to a surprisingly clean room with a small hearth and a large bed. Geralt set Jaskier down carefully on the bed and considered his meager coin pouch. He'd never gotten paid for the drowner contract. But the innkeeper waved him away. “Your money is no good here, Sir.” 

“Most men prefer payment for the services they provide,” Geralt said, his brow furrowing as he set down the saddle bags and Jaskier's lute. He didn't want to leave them in the stables and he wasn't going to leave the bard alone long enough to go back down and get them. 

“Most men don't owe a debt that could never be repaid,” the innkeeper said quietly as he went over to build up a fire from the embers in the hearth. 

Geralt didn't like the sound of that. There was a reason he negotiated his contracts up front. He didn't want to owe a stranger. He didn't want to owe anyone. He would have rode on or taken his chances in the woods if he'd known he'd become entangled here in some kind of unknown deal.

“You probably don't remember,” the other man continued. “But you've passed through here once before. You've a few more scars now, but otherwise you've not changed.” He brushed a hand down the front of his apron nervously as he stood and turned back to him. “You killed the neckers that plagued our town. You saved us. Because of you, we were able to thrive instead of crumbling into ruin.”

Geralt remembered. He wasn't sure if was part of his mutations or if Destiny sought to teach him a lesson for ignoring her, but he remembered every hunt, every monster. Every victim. The man before him was decades older now than the small child he'd been then, but the scar below his left eye was the same. His name was Braeyden. Geralt shifted uncomfortably under the man's earnest gaze. He hadn't saved everyone.

“I didn't save your father.”

“A pox on the whoreson bastard,” Braeyden muttered. “His loss made my mother's final years much more peaceful, may her soul rest in peace. He was no great loss. But I wouldn't have this place had you not agreed to the pitiful bounty the elders offered. The least I can do is offer you and your friend food and shelter. Anything you need, just ask.”

Geralt merely nodded, unsure of what to say. Braeyden gave him a short bow before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. He returned a short while later with a bucket of clean, hot water and bandages. He set them by the hearth and looked back toward the door. Frowning, he waved his hand impatiently. Nattie stepped into the room and curtsied awkwardly. 

“Please forgive my harsh words, Master Witcher. I, uh. . .” She faltered when she met his eyes and glanced quickly down. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled before finally losing her nerve and scurrying out the door. Braeyden just shook his head and followed her out. 

Geralt locked the door more out of habit than anything else, and went to the bed to check on the unconscious bard. Jaskier had yet to wake. He'd shifted restlessly in the blanket while they rode, but hadn't made a sound or opened his eyes. Geralt brought the bucket closer and unfurled some of the bandages before pulling the blanket aside. There were ugly bruises forming on Jaskier's wrists and ankles. The markings on his throat were darker still. Fortunately, the cuts were small and already scabbing over. Geralt had hoped to never hear Jaskier choke for breath again after the jinn. It was a horrible sound that had been burned into his memory that day. This time, it had made his own breath catch. 

With movements far more gentle than most people believed him capable of, he carefully wiped away the smudged markings that had been painted on the other man's skin. He felt himself breathe easier when he finally washed them away. The herbal smoke still lingered on his body and in his hair, but Geralt planned on having Braeyden draw a bath later after he woke up. Smoothing balm over the worst of the bruises, he wrapped them in bandages and pulled the bedding up over Jaskier. Geralt settled on his knees by the fire to meditate and calm himself while he waited for the bard to wake. But his search for peace was quickly interrupted by a shuddering breath from the bed. Geralt rose smoothly and went over to lay a hand gently on the other man's shoulder.

“Jaskier,” he said softly. 

The bard let out a sigh and his breathing evened out again. But as soon as Geralt moved back, Jaskier became visibly uneasy again. Sighing, he toed off his boots and pulled off his shirt. He slid under the covers and settled down beside him. It wasn't the first time they'd shared a bed. Cold nights and meager coin made sharing expedient. At least that's what he told himself as he pulled the other man towards him. Jaskier turned into him and Geralt fought not to roll his eyes before easing onto his back and allowing the bard to press against his side and settle his head on his shoulder. Jaskier sighed again before relaxing completely and slipping into a deeper sleep. After nearly two days of not sleeping himself, Geralt soon followed.

*******

Geralt's eyes snapped open when he felt the weight on the bed shift. He automatically tightened his grip and scanned the room for threats. Morning light streamed in through the window, but at an angle that told him he'd slept all day and night until the following morning. There was no one in the room or anything amiss that he could see. Turning his attention to his companion, he saw Jaskier peering up at him, looking slightly abashed.

“Um, good morning?” Jaskier said, hesitantly. “Say, would you mind relaxing just a bit. I've some personal business to attend to.” He shifted impatiently and gave him a pointed look as he raised his eyebrows. “You know, out back? In ye old privy?” 

Geralt frowned and released him, wondering why it had taken him so long to let go. The bard shimmied out from under the covers with a bit less coordination than usual. He tripped over the blanket which made him turn in an awkward spin as he stood.

“I mean, I'm all for cuddling,” Jaskier said while catching his balance. “but sometimes you pump out heat like a bonfire.” He blew out a breath and stretched before stopping suddenly with his hands out in front of him. Blinking in confusion at the bandages, he took a shuddering breath. One hand reached to his throat tentatively. “Geralt,” he said softly. “What happened last night?”

“Do you remember anything?” Geralt stayed on the bed, not liking the distant look in Jaskier's eyes. The bard looked spooked and he didn't want to startle him with sudden movements. At least there was no sound of hoarseness in the other man's voice. That was a relief.

“Well,” Jaskier began as he flipped his hair off his forehead. “You'd gone off to hunt drowners while I stayed with Roach.” He looked down at his bare chest and over to their bags before flicking his eyes back up to where Geralt lay on the bed watching him. “I've lost another doublet, haven't I?”

“It seems so.” 

“Well that's just wonderful!” Jaskier threw his hands up and stalked over to their bags, seemingly forgetting about the bandages and the other night's events. “That was my favorite. Do you have any idea how long I had to wait for the tailor to finish it?” He plucked up Geralt's discarded shirt automatically and pulled it over his head. “Six weeks, Geralt.” When the fabric settled over his shoulders and the hem fluttered down below his hips, he glared at the Witcher and rolled up the sleeves. “Six weeks of excruciating patience while the most exclusive designer in Cidaris worked his fingers to the bone to create such beauty. And now it's gone.”

“A tragedy to be sure,” Geralt replied dryly.

Jaskier shot him a prim look. “Must you be so callous? I'm talking about a work of art. A feast for the eyes, especially when worn by yours truly. Why is it that I'm always losing my clothing when I travel with you?” With an indignant huff, he stomped out of the room.

Geralt didn't say anything as Jaskier left. He sat up and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed, but remained seated for several minutes to let the other man have some space. His overly dramatic companion liked the attention his antics garnered, but he wasn't entirely sure if Jaskier was really that upset about the clothes or if he was covering his discomfort with drama. He hadn't even flirted with him about the obvious innuendo in his last comment. No wink, no knowing glance intended to make him glare or growl at him. As much as the bard loved to declare how he felt about everything at every available opportunity, he could be very quiet about serious matters. Or injuries. More than once, Geralt had caught him trying to hide his hurts for fear he'd be left behind. But he wouldn't press if he didn't want to talk about it. He'd seen a flicker of memory in the bard's eyes and a tightening around his mouth. 

Over the years they'd been traveling together, Geralt had learned to read beyond what he was saying. A thousand silent words would flicker across the younger man's face without him having to speak them aloud. But Geralt wasn't entirely sure how he was doing right now. He'd give him some time to settle. He'd talk when he was ready. Pulling on his spare shirt, Geralt grabbed Jaskier's pack and went downstairs to get breakfast for both of them and ask for a bath to be drawn. The sooner that acrid herbal scent was completely washed away, the better. 

Braeyden was happy to fill a platter with bread, cheese, and cuts of meat left from last night's roast. He said the bath was already prepared since they'd heard the bard moving about upstairs. Jaskier was sitting quietly at the bar, his bare toes splayed on the rungs of the stool. He was gnawing his lower lip gently, lost in thought. Geralt caught his eye and nodded at him to follow into the back room where the steaming tub was waiting. The bard wordlessly followed. Geralt left the platter for the moment but brought the jug of water and mug that had been provided. Filling the mug, he handed it to Jaskier and waited until he drank it all before taking it back and pulling the bandages gently free of his wrists. The bruises had darkened considerably, but weren't as bad as they'd initially looked yesterday morning. 

Jaskier was looking down at where his hands rested in Geralt's larger palms. Turning his wrists, he gripped Geralt's fingers and squeezed. They stood for a moment breathing quietly, not saying anything. A bird chirped it's morning song outside, and an early patron murmured morning greetings in the common room. And then the moment was over and Jaskier pulled away to start undressing. He set Geralt's shirt aside and slipped out of his trousers. They'd need to be laundered to get the scuffed dirt out of them. 

The bard hissed out a breath as he stepped into the steaming water and settled down. A soft smile spread across his face when Geralt pulled a bar of rosemary and mint soap out of his pack and handed it to him. While he lathered and scrubbed his skin, Geralt peeled back the bandage wrapped around his throat. He probed with gentle fingers and felt the bard swallow under touch. He'd heal quickly without any scarring which was a relief. To have his voice stolen truly would have been a tragedy, carrying marks a a reminder doubly so. 

“It was like falling asleep,” Jaskier said quietly. He huffed a soft laugh. “I was trying to find a word that rhymed with Succubus. Why is it that monster names don't rhyme with anything?” He brought the bar of soap to his nose and inhaled deeply. “That awful smell. It was everywhere. And then . . .” He trailed off and sighed. 

Geralt lifted a bucket of clean water and used it to wet Jaskier's hair before taking the soap from him and lathering the soft strands. The younger man leaned into his touch and breathed deeply.

“I felt it in my bones. Whatever was happening.” He shuddered, making the surface of the water ripple. “I didn't like it.” He closed his eyes to let Geralt rinse his hair before slicking his hands back over his head to wring the water out. Turning in the tub, he blinked up at him with water dripping from his lashes. “Are they. . ?”

“I dealt with them. Did they hurt you?” Geralt had checked him over thoroughly yesterday morning and hadn't seen any marks or wounds hidden by his clothes today. 

Jaskier shook his head. “Not that I remember,” he said, holding up his wrists. “Just the obvious.” 

Sitting in the water with his hair slicked back, Jaskier looked much younger than his years. There was a vulnerability to the sight that made Geralt's heart ache. Leaning forward until his forehead pressed into Jaskier's wet temple, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly. The other man sat quietly and turned his head slightly towards him but didn't move away. The smell of rosemary and mint filled Geralt's senses. He breathed it in, letting it wash away everything else for as long as he dared. Another quite moment, not stolen perhaps. Maybe given. Something between them full of silent words neither of them would utter. Pulling away finally, he left the room and went out to the stables to check on Roach. Finding her secure and well fed, he came back in to sit at the bar and started eating. A tankard of ale was set by his elbow.

“Is your young friend alright?” Braeyden asked quietly.

“He's fine.” 

“Of course, of course.” If the other man was bothered by his gruff reply, he didn't show it. “There's a cobbler, next town over. Makes the best boots 'round these parts.” 

Yes, they'd definitely need to replace Jaskier's footwear as soon as possible. No doubt he'd spend the entire trip loudly mourning the loss. Geralt turned as the bard came out with freshly combed hair wearing his spare set of clothes. The matching doublet and trousers were the soft gray of morning fog, a much more sedate choice than the cornflower blue he'd been wearing before. It didn't bring out the color of his eyes quite the same way. Jaskier settled on the stool next to Geralt and started eating like he hadn't had a meal in days. 

Geralt sipped the surprisingly pleasing ale and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He'd have to steer his hunts more towards villages with established taverns and inns for a while. The other man's ribs were a bit too prominent for his liking. Closing his eyes, he felt his lips twitch. Vesemir would be laughing his ass off if he found out he was besotted with a fucking bard of all people.

“Be still my beating heart.” Jaskier laid a hand on his chest in a rather dramatic fashion. “Is that a smile, my dear Witcher?” 

Geralt glared at him, but it just made the other man grin with laughter glittering in his eyes. He seemed no worse for wear despite his recent brush with death. Whatever quiet tension had been strung between them relaxed and settled into something more comfortable. It was a dangerous game they played together. Either one of them could die at any given moment. It was in Geralt's best interest to send the bard away, but he knew he wouldn't. He was glad of the company and would enjoy his presence as long as he chose to travel at his side. But he'd never say so. Getting to his feet, he headed towards the stairs before turning back.

“If you're not done by the time I get my gear, I'll leave you behind, Bard.” His tone was gruff but held no heat. Jaskier looked him in the eye and started chewing slower. Geralt snorted and went upstairs to gather his things, fully intending to spend some time inspecting his swords and cleaning everything. He'd leave when the other man decided he was ready. They'd travel on to the next town and then on to the next hunt and wherever the trail would take them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading.


End file.
